Moments of Clarity
by BlackWolfSong
Summary: A few seconds of clarity and then it is all down hill from there. Happy ending though. I may make a couple of companion pieces from Mycroft's and John's POV. Rated for a few bad words  h e double hockey sticks  and a very mild graphic account of sickness.
1. Sherlock's POV

This is not beta read and I am not English, so please forgive any Americanism that I was unaware. If you point them out, and tell me how to fix them, I would be happy to do so; the same goes with spelling mistakes and grammatical errors. I do not own any of the versions of any of the characters of Sherlock Holmes, nor is this intended to infringe in any way on anyone's rights. I write for fun.

This is movie-verse (I think) and since we never saw Mycroft, I used writer's privilege.

2.3 seconds exactly, was his most precise estimation.

He had exactly 2.3 seconds from the time he first gained awareness until the time it was stolen from him. In the time before the clarity of the 2.3 seconds, there were some impressions, but they were vague, shadow-like things that were hard to pin down to exactness. A sensation of being dragged to his feet; a shoulder, trembling slightly but solid under his arm; a forward motion, his own feet moving sluggishly, refusing to obey him correctly even as he was tugged ever forward.

Then, the 2.3 seconds of exact clarity.

_Mycroft's was the shoulder on which my arm was placed._

_We were in a long, narrow hallway, dim and musty, clearly abandoned, one lone window at the end of the hall, 2 doors on the left, 3 doors on the right, abandoned hotel or lower class apartments._

_The air was strong with the smell of fish, unwashed bodies, pine wax, wood and salt air. We were near the docks, the boat works on the east side, recently bankrupt, also abandoned. _

_Brother mine, usually so neat of attire, was wearing only shirtsleeves, pants and shoes, disheveled and dirty but otherwise unhurt. His sharp gaze was calm, his steps hurried. We were being pursued, but had gained enough of a lead to be cautious instead of quick._

_My own clothes were in tatters, my shirt ripped, torn and bloodied; several large holes in my trousers and I was *not* wearing shoes. I was used as coercion for my brother to perform some task._

_My body was covered with bruises and small cuts, all dismissible and unable to explain why Mycroft was supporting my trembling body. I was unable to theorize as I did not have enough data._

_There was a small puncture wound, as such that might be left by a syringe, on my left forearm._

It ripped though his belly like a phoenix reborn in a crescendo of flame, taking with it the clarity his mind had achieved. He vaguely registered a keening noise, filed away to be analyzed later, as the pain consumed him. The wave of agony sent him to his knees, making him retch with the cramping and sickness that flared so brightly within his stomach. Vile fluid, warm and bitter, burst from his mouth. He barely felt the hand that knotted itself in the back of his shirt, the only thing that kept him upright as his body expelled its insides again and again until there was nothing left. Even then, the hell hounds of pain ripped through his stomach, tearing and burning as they went, making him heave dryly, spitting and coughing for breath against the spasms. Another high pitched keening noise sounded, one his mind (the small analytical part still working) was finally realized was coming from him.

The hand knotted in his shirt tugged at him, pulling him up from all fours to a kneeling position and still it wasn't satisfied.

"Up, Sherlock."

Brother mine spoke, he voice tight, seemingly impatient with my weakness. We were boys again, in my mind, and I was young and desperate to keep up with him and him just as desperate to be away from me. I tried to gain my feet, cursing the trembling in my legs, the weakness of my body as the hand that was knotted in my shirt pulled me more vertical. The grip changed, transferred from my shirt to my arm, the grip squeezing over the bruises there.

The pain, which had ebbed back like the tide, flowed again, crashing against me. I tried to return to my knees, gagging against the dry heaves, my own arms wrapped firmly around my middle to prevent the animal that was currently trying to claw its way out of my middle an easy exodus. The hand around my arm tightened, not letting me fall. A soft whimper escaped before I could grit my teeth against it. The hand switched from my arm to wind around my back, his massive arm gripping like a python as I was tugged against his large side.

"Now, walk."

I tried, my legs trembling and managed a few steps to please him, seeking to remove that terrible (and why was it terrible again?) perceived censure from his voice. The pain, if possible, grew worse. I tried to halt, stumbling forward to fall, but he was relentless, keeping me upright and moving. The world grew hotter around me, like a descent into hell itself, until I was only conscious of the pain in my stomach, the oppressing heat (making it so hard to breathe) and his relentless tugging.

I don't recall when I started to beg him.

"_Please_, Brother Mine, what have I done? I am sorry, I truly am. Please stop. I cannot. It_ hurts_. _Please_."

Still, he dragged me on. My pleas turned to whimpers as my body betrayed me further. Our stop then, seemed quite sudden. One moment I was marched into hell, and then quite suddenly I was resting as I did as a boy, curled up in his lap, my head pillowed against his massive shoulder, as I lay writhing against his bulk. His body was so *warm* that my body suddenly realized how cold it was, the shivering increasing the pain, which was already unbearable. I gasped for breath, unable and uncaring about the little sounds of pain my voice was betraying me with any longer.

Almost as suddenly as it began, the pain began to fade. The withdrawing of the pain did not return my clarity, however, but brought with it a strange, overwhelming lassitude that the very back of my analytical brain had come to associate with morphine. My body relaxed by degrees, and so did my consciousness fade by degrees.

However, before blackness engulfed me I had the strange impressions of childhood. I was being gently rocked, as if I was a boy of 5, and had hurt myself somehow. A large hand, was stroking through my hair and brother mine, whom I looked up to and thought the world, was humming our favorite piece of music, softly. Blackness took me before I could process these strange remnants of my boyhood any deeper.


	2. Mycroft's POV

I'm not sure I like this one as much as the first one, but here is Mycroft's POV in this little charade. I will most likely write one from John's POV, set later, when they are home safe at Baker Street, to finish it off. Thank you to those who reviewed. I have to say though that swearing is definitely not a way to get me to write faster. ::smirks::

It should not have surprised me as it did when he fell forward ill. Though his body clung to me physically, my mind was working on the numerous twists and plots which have lead first me, then my brother here. He was foolish to get caught, thus being a pawn to be used against me. That he managed to then free us both, and lead us to this place before collapsing into almost insensibility was almost intolerable. What did I know of his world, that I should be the one to run and scamper and play cat to the mice like he? Just because my logic was superior to his own did not mean I wished to use it in this fashion.

It was thoughts like these that distracted me from him long enough so I missed what signs he gave of warning. I barely had enough time to grasp his shirt as he fell, the meek sound of pain causing me to pale. "Sherlock?"

He did not answer, too busy being wrenchingly ill. Frowning, I looked him over closely, chastening myself for my inattention. The needle mark was glaringly apparently had I taken the time to really look at my brother, instead of chastising him in my mind. More sounds, like those of an abused pup, came from him, as he struggled to breathe through the spasms. He was dreadfully pale, sweating and I frowned more, categorizing his symptoms as my fist tightened in his shirt to keep him from falling into what his stomach ejected. Poison to be sure, but what type? Over his agony I hear a sound, a door slam and footsteps hurrying. Tugging at his shirt, I tried to ease him to his feet. I could not let him fall into their hands again.

"Up, Sherlock."

Simple words seemed to be the best way to communicate, as he did not seem lucid. My voice was tense with anxiety over the thought of his returning to mercies of our ex-captures. I shifted myself to get a better grip on him, and urged him forward. "They are coming, Sherlock. We must be gone."

I saw no sign of understanding as he stood trembling, face grey with pain and sickness. I tugged at his arm, and he took a few steps forward, before almost pitching over again. I hurried to drag him close to my body, pinning him against my side. I longed to let him rest, but we could not be captured again! Why had he lead us to this abandoned spot? I stood for a moment, clearing my mind of the dregs of panic, trying to think like my brother. It was not a hard feat. He would not have lead us here unless he had good reason, for he was a logical man. Help must be near-by. Sherlock had been leading us towards the boathouse before he became insensible. I would wager that Dr. Watson at least was waiting there to assist us. Tugging him a little tighter to offer him more support, I urged him forward.

"Now, walk."

I don't know how he kept to his feet, with the way he shook and trembled. We had walked most of the distance through the abandoned tenant building, and were almost to the boat works when he gave a great cry of pain and the tears started. A voice which I have never heard from him, breathless and thready, began to beg me to stop his torment. In truth, though I continued to move forward, it being the only logical thing to do, I still shudder at the pleading quality my brother's voice held.

"_Please_, Brother Mine, what have I done? I am sorry, I truly am. Please stop. I cannot. It_ hurts_. _Please_."

I tried to assure him the best I could, but he did not seem to hear my words, lost in his own word of pain. Whimpers were all the answers I received to my whispered assurances. I can say then, with great certainty, that few sights were as welcome to me as Dr. Watson hurrying towards us in that dim alley between the tenant building and the boat works. As he reached us, I found myself shaky with relief, and sunk down upon the ground, drawing Sherlock up into my lap so he would not have to touch the filth around us. He shook with pain and cold, and even as I explained in simple, logical terms to Dr. Watson what I thought was wrong with him, (poison, likely from a coral snake), I stroked his hair soothingly, as I did when he was a boy. As Dr. Watson gave him something for the pain, and rambled on about anti-venom and Scotland Yard and the criminals, I hummed a piece of music, a snatch at a boyhood memory, which used to calm an upset Sherlock when we were children. In a few moments, I would return to the aloof man I had become, and let the emotions Sherlock stirred in me return back into the recesses of my mind. However, the pleading of my brother still clear in my mind, I soothed us both for a little while longer.


	3. John's POV

Yes, I know I promised you John's POV but I find it very very difficult to write his POV. I am much more like Sherlock, you see. However, there is a little interlude of Sherlock's unconscious ramblings to get me started, then right into John. I figured if I never finished because I couldn't start in his POV, you all would forgive me if I had to start in a different POV first, right? The bold lettering is Sherlocks thoughts. The rest is John.

**A voice floated towards him, carried along on a very pleasing color of muted white, almost like notes on an ancient sheet of music. He didn't think it was strange that he could see the sounds as they floated towards him in this inky blackness in which he found himself. For a moment, he wondered why he thought it was strange that he *didn't* think it was strange that he could see sounds but only for a moment, until the sounds reached him. Then, as they crested on him and broke like gentle waves he smiled. The voice was very comforting, almost hypnotic in a way, and he decided he absolutely *must* float that line of pulsing, please notes through the blackness to its source.**

"Come on now Holmes. Stop being a stubborn…", John trailed off with a sigh, twisting a little so he could rewet the cloth he held in cool water before he resumed bathing his friend's face and neck. It had been almost a day since Mycroft and Sherlock had been escaped from the men who wished to use Mycroft to further their anarchist plot against the government. Somehow Holmes had known where Mycroft was and had "allowed" himself to get captured in order to retrieve him. John had to admit the note he had found left for him had been more cryptic than most.

_J- Have gone to fetch Mycroft. Be at the boat works with Lestrade by 7. Bring coral snake anti-venom. –S_

He was yanked out of his thoughts by a soft, pained murmur from Holmes. "Shhhh, old boy. I'm here. You are safe. How did you know about the coral snake anyways? I mean, it is not native, and all of those captured by the Yard were English." John rewet the cloth again from his bowl, smooth it over Sherlock's sweaty brow, soothing them both.

"You're a damned fool though for letting yourself be captured though! Was that really the best plan you could come up with?" John sighed with frustration, watching the tiny tremors race up and down his friend's limbs, as his friend's body tried to purge the venom out of his system. "The boat works indeed. Do you know how many boat works there are? How did you know I would even find you in time?"

Once again, John turned to wet his cloth, but this time, he left the cloth in the bowl, opting instead to rest his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. He could do nothing more than what he had done already. He had given Holmes all the anti-venom he had been able to find here in London, and all the morphine he could administer without compromising his breathing. He should have woken by now. What it he never did? Shaking himself from his thoughts, he wrung out the cloth in the bowl, and then turned, with the intention of resuming his cooling ministrations. Instead he gasped in surprise to find himself looking down into a pair of slightly dazed but wonderfully open eyes.

God that was awful. LOL. I really can't write John at all. I invite any and all comers to write a better POV for John than this. Please please please save me! BW


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